My name is, well it doesn’t really matter now does it? You wouldn’t care, it’s not particularly good name, just plain, unassuming. Pretty much just like me and my parents and my grandparents and on and on through time and generations. A whole family populated by wallflowers with social phobias.
We don’t leave footprints.
We do not matter.
Whether the Mayans’ calender holds true and we are obliterated in a couple years, or we all have to wait until Rapture, one thing is certain.
St. Peter won’t recognize anybody with my last name.
I was always told that I could be anyone I wanted to be, rich, fat, and famous. I just had to work hard. My blood is a composite of generations of non-athletic, scholars who are allergic to hammers.
I am an amalgamation of those who just get by.
I tried for years to get noticed. I was a failed class clown, failed jock.
The only thing I’ve been able to achieve was something five minutes ago. They’ll know my name now.
James Smith, the murderer.